


Down Don't Bother Me

by ignipes



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-09
Updated: 2007-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-03 09:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignipes/pseuds/ignipes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For once in his life, Sam isn't exactly in a sharing, caring mood. Coda to "Born Under a Bad Sign."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down Don't Bother Me

It feels like there's a goddamn parade marching through his head and a hot knife twisting in his shoulder, but he drives until he can hardly keep his eyes open and the yellow lines on the highway are blurring together in the darkness. They finally stop at some shithole nowhere exit on the edge of the badlands, nothing but a truck stop and a Super 8 in a burst of light on I-90. Dean trades a couple of twenties for a room key while Sam waits in the car.

Bags inside, door shut tight, lock turned and chain in place, and all Sam says is, "I'm taking a shower."

It's the first thing he's said in about a hundred miles, punctuated with the slam of the bathroom door.

Dean waits until he hears the shower running before shrugging off his jacket and collapsing on one of the beds, closing his eyes and ignoring the weirdly slick feel of the unwashed polyester comforter. His face hurts, his shoulder hurts, his entire goddamned body hurts, but he can't be fucked to find a more comfortable position or dig up some of Jo's happy pills. He's too tired to move, too tired to fucking breathe after a week of running himself mad looking for Sam and a couple days chasing him, caffeine lit like gasoline in his veins, dialing Sam's number until the voice mail message plays in his mind like an endless litany, echoing under the roar of a thousand plans and unanswered questions and _god, no, this can't be happening, this isn't happening, this is not fucking happening--_

After what seems like about an hour, the shower finally shuts off. Dean listens to the rattle of the curtain on the rod, hears Sam bang into something and curse quietly -- always too fucking big for these shitty motel rooms, has been since he was about fifteen -- and he waits, eyes half open and one hand twisted in the comforter like it's a lifeline, like he's afraid he'll float away if he doesn't hold tight.

_Stupid_. Dean forces himself to release the blanket, opens and closes his fist a few times, and he doesn't think about sucker-punching Sam just because it felt so goddamned good, just for that one fleeting second, so good to shut up that face that had been so fucking smug and laughing and taunting, using Sam's weapons and Sam's hands, Sam's eyes and Sam's smile -- _a prison,_ she'd said, sneering with Sam's face, voice breathless and intimate, _a prison made of bone and flesh and blood and fear_ \-- because even bastard demons that crawl out of hell like -- _like a cockroach_ \-- like the worst vermin, even they know a good, sharp tool when they see one.

The bathroom door opens and Dean snaps his eyes shut, pretends to be dozing.

"Hey." Sam's voice is rough, like he's been shouting for hours, like he's not sure he wants to talk at all. "How're you feeling?"

Dean opens one eye but doesn't manage much of a glare. "I feel like some dickhead used my face as a punching bag." Sam's wearing sweats and a t-shirt and he's perched on the edge of the other bed, and even with only one eye open Dean can tell he's anxious, wired, poised to spring up or jump back, so he just lets his one eye slide shut again and says, "Nothing a few hours of sleep won't fix."

He hears Sam stand up and start going through their shit. Every metallic clank of every gun is like a grenade in Dean's head, and he's this close to telling Sam to sit the fuck down and never make any noise again when the rattling stops. The sink runs briefly, and a few seconds later the mattress dips beside him and Sam is saying, "Here, take this."

Both eyes this time, and like a regular fucking genius Dean forgets his shoulder when he tries to sit up. The reminder is quick and hot, pain racing like fire through his arm and neck, and he's too busy spitting out a string of cuss words to swat away Sam's hands, pulling him up strong and firm then letting him go immediately.

"Where'd we get these?" Sam spills a couple of pills into Dean's hand and frowns at the label on the bottle. "I don't remember--"

"Jo," Dean says shortly. He tosses the pills into his mouth and swallows them dry before noticing that Sam is holding a plastic cup of water for him.

"Oh." Sam looks down, hair hanging over his face, and he shoves the plastic cup into Dean's hand and stands up so quickly water sloshes out, drips and beads on the comforter. "I should -- I should call her." Sam is pacing the room in short, quick steps, running his hands through his hair, his words tripping over themselves as they tumble out. He holds his burnt arm out from his body, like he doesn't want it near him anymore; the mark on his skin in angry and red, probably hurts like hell. "I should call her, explain to her -- apologize to her--"

"She's fine," Dean snaps. When Sam doesn't answer, he flicks the last of the water in the cup at him and says again, "She's _fine_, Sam." Even as he says it, Dean knows it's probably not exactly true, so he adds, "Call her in the morning if it'll make you feel better, but I kinda doubt she wants to hear your voice right about now." He feels a pang of guilt -- they should call her, let her know they're alive if nothing else -- but neither he nor Sam reaches for a phone.

Sam sits down on Dean's bed again. "I don't even -- I mean, I remember some of it, but it's blurry, like a dream."

"But you remember some of it."

"Yeah." Sam opens his mouth like he's going to say more, then changes his mind and shakes his head. "I remember that demons don't sleep."

"At all?"

"At all." He yawns and stretches, shoves Dean's foot out of the way and slumps down on the pillow. "I could sleep for a week."

"Dude, there's another bed."

"You can have that one," Sam replies, his voice low and heavy.

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes himself back, adjusts one of the flimsy pillows against the headboard and reaches down to pull off his boots. "So what do you remember?" He tries to keep it casual, just a regular fucking question on a regular fucking night. "Anything important?"

"I don't..." Sam lifts his head and glances at Dean quickly before rubbing his face and dropping back to the pillow. "I don't really want to talk about it tonight."

"Well, hell," Dean says, suddenly, inexplicably angry. "Stop the fucking presses. For once in his life, Sammy Winchester ain't in a sharing, caring kind of mood."

That earns him a glare from one half-open eye. "Yeah," Sam mutters against the pillow. "Funny how murdering a man and attacking a girl and shooting my own brother has that effect."

"So you do remember that part." Dean tugs off his jeans and kicks the blankets and sheets down -- hell if he's going to surrender his bed just because the dumb lump is too lazy to move -- and he slides down slowly, careful of his shoulder. The drugs are kicking in and he feels a little dizzy, a little detached. He closes his eyes when the ceiling threatens to start spinning.

"Yeah," Sam says quietly. "I do. I tried to stop -- I'm so sorry, Dean. I'm sorry."

And that's what gets Dean, gets him as good as a punch to the gut. A week of frantic worry and a thousand phone calls and bloodstains and eyes flooded with black, bullet slamming into flesh and freezing dark water swallowing him whole, hands in fists and head thrown back in laughter and foul black smoke spilling in a roar of fury, and right here, right now, Sammy really is sorry. Sorry because he's too stupid, too stubborn, too fucking _Sam_ to realize that he didn't have any goddamned choice in the matter.

"Just don't make a habit of it," Dean says finally. He reaches over with his good arm and switches off the lamp. "I might start to think you don't like me."

"I don't like you," Sam mumbles. "You're hogging my bed."

"It's my bed, asshole. I was here first."

Sam is quiet for so long that when he speaks again Dean is already half-asleep.

"I just," Sam begins. He pauses, swallows audibly, and tries again, "It's just that."

Dean opens his eyes. The lights from the parking lot mark the ceiling in hatches and stripes, and on the other side of the room the heater finally rumbles to life.

"I know you hate me for making you promise," Sam says , his voice barely louder than a whisper, "but if it can make me do things -- you know it's going to go for you first, don't you? I mean, even if you didn't go around pissing off every demon you meet, it's not going to -- whatever it's plans are, you're going to be in the way--"

"Goddamnit, Sam, of course I'm--"

"Dean, don't. Just -- don't," Sam says softly. "You know she could have killed you a dozen times -- she could have killed you the minute you walked into that motel room. The only reason she didn't was because she was enjoying herself -- she thought it was _fun_, using me -- using me to hurt you." Sam hesitates and turns restlessly on the bed, but Dean doesn't look at him. "And they're going to do it again. You know they are, Dean. They're going to use me against you, and I don't--"

"Yeah, okay," Dean interrupts, closing his eyes and rubbing his hand over his face. _Worthless_, that bitch had said. _Pathetic. Wanted to see if I could push you far enough to waste Sam._ "Maybe. Look, Sammy, we'll deal with that when we come to it, okay? Just like we dealt with this. Now get some sleep."

"Dean, you don't know--"

Dean drops his hand down and rests it on Sam's shoulder. Sam is solid and shower-warm and so _alive_ through the cotton of his t-shirt, and he falls silent immediately, his protest dropping away into slow, measured breaths.

"You'll freeze your ass off if you don't cover up," Dean says.

He squeezes Sam's shoulder gently and lets go, rolls onto his good side and wrangles the limp pillow into shape. _Can't save your brother._ Sam doesn't respond, doesn't even move. _Deep down you know._ Dean closes his eyes again to let the pain meds work their magic.

He falls asleep uneasily, restlessly, the warm, reassuring bulk of Sam at his back fading into a churning mess of black smoke and swarming roaches, and cold, dark water closes over him as he sinks into silence.


End file.
